


Pouting, Pillows, and Pregnancy

by downdeepinside



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Mpreg, Some Humor, prompted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 17:18:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1193313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downdeepinside/pseuds/downdeepinside
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for blue-box-adventurer's prompt on tumblr: 'Overly emotional pregnant Sherlock arguing with John over something stupid like pillows?'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pouting, Pillows, and Pregnancy

**Author's Note:**

> Past tense and, well, it's been a while since I wrote mpreg. Have at it.
> 
> (If you don't like mpreg, as usual, don't feel the need to stick around.)

“I just,” Sherlock threw the blue duvet down on the floor and shook his head, running his hands through his hair and fluffing it a little as he went, “I don’t think you quite understand the _importance_ of this, John. I’m not sure that you really _get_ it.”

The army doctor huffed out an irritated breath, before closing his eyes and quickly catching himself. He stood back, and folded his arms across his chest. Panic, stress, anger, it was all catching. And he’d be no good to Sherlock in this state if he allowed himself to get just as upset.

“Love,” he started, aware how the platitude could potentially serve to only aggravate his partner even more, “Perhaps we should both just-”

The detective reached for the hammer, and used it to gesture towards the giraffe clock John had earlier hooked to the wall. “It’s like this stupid clock, you see,” he took a few steps (awkward waddles) towards the ornament and huffed out a breath, balancing on his toes to reach for the clock before falling back onto his heels and rubbing his free hand across his back. “What if he doesn’t like giraffes, hmm? What if, say, he finds their necks disconcerting? Or… or the colour disagrees with him. It could make him sick, John! This stupid clock might make him… sick!” As Sherlock spoke, his voice went up in tone, until by the end he was practically squeaking – his voice shrill and wobbly as if he were on the edge of tears. Come to think of it, by this point in the pregnancy, it wouldn’t be a shock to find him suddenly on the verge of tears.

John sighed and took a step towards the man, holding his hands up in the way one might if they were approaching a frightened animal. Cautiously, he reached for the hammer and took it from his partner; placing it on the floor where Sherlock wouldn’t be able to reach it (his belly left little room for bending).

“How about we just come back to this tomorrow, hmm?” a gentle hand was placed on Sherlock’s shoulder, and slowly John led him towards the bedroom door, “We can sort all of this out another time.”

“I don’t want him to be unhappy,” the taller man whimpered, one hand covering his face while the other rubbed at his oversized stomach. John sighed and nodded.

“I know, love, I know.”

***

_Where are you? – SH._

John groaned loudly as his phone buzzed, revealing his pregnant partners wakeful state. He scooped up a bunch of files and dropped them into his bag before swinging it over his shoulder and heading towards the door.

_Coming_. _– JW._

***

Sherlock was back in the bedroom when John returned, and the army doctor is silently impressed he managed the stairs all by himself with forty weeks of foetus attached to his front.

“Alright?” John asked, dumping his bag by the door and stepping into the yellow bedroom. The giraffe clock was still attached to the wall, and thank god the crib John spent hours on happened to be still assembled. Unfortunately, Sherlock looked anything but put-together as he sat cross legged on the floor, clutching a small pillow in his hands and staring at several different sets of bed sheets in front of him. One set purple, one set deep blue, and one set black with the solar system outlined on it in bright colours.

Slowly, the detective looked up to the army doctor before shaking his head and letting out a pathetic sob. John huffed out a small breath before shuffling towards Sherlock and dropping to his knees, wrapping an arm around the man and pressing a light kiss to his forehead when Sherlock turned to bury his head in his soldier.  John shifted, uncomfortable on the floor, and shushed the pregnant man gently. “It doesn’t matter, Sherlock. It really, _really_ , doesn’t matter.”

Sherlock pulled in a shaky breath and tried to move away as much as his cramp and gravity would allow, “It is! I want him to be happy John, what if we give him the solar system and it doesn’t make him happy?”

“Only you would worry the solar system isn’t enough to make our son happy,” John joked awkwardly, only regretting it as Sherlock scowled and pulled away, struggling to his feet.

“This is important, John!” Sherlock screamed, for about the fiftieth time that week, taking in a loud breath before starting up on the same speech, just slightly different words, “If our son grows up to hate us, if he leaves when he’s sixteen with some little backpack and a scowl on his face, and it’s all because we… we pigeon-holed him into liking…” Sherlock reached for the blue cover, waving it about dramatically, “Into liking _blue_ when all along he really loved _purple_ , or pink, or green, do you really think you’ll be able to live with yourself? Do you? Do you honestly think you’d be able to keep _breathing_ if you knew that- that-” the detective growled and threw the duvet to the floor, “It’s important!”

John waited, counting to ten in his head, before bending down to retrieve all of the covers from the floor. He left all but one on the cot, before slipping the small pillow Sherlock had abandoned into the green pillow case. Sherlock pulled in a distraught breath and John held up a patient hand.

“Green pillow, blue bed sheet, solar system duvet cover: a bit of everything. And when he’s here, when he can tell us what he wants, we’ll give it to him. Okay, love? Do you think you can cope with that?”

Sherlock blinked, before folding his arms across his (slightly swollen) chest and pouting, “There’s no need to patronise me.” He hissed.

John sighed and turned towards the door, “Ice cream?” he asked, casually calling over his shoulder as he waked down the stairs.

The detective scowled grumpily at his partners retreating from, before pausing. Moments later he followed after the doctor, smiling pleasantly and reaching for a spoon in the cutlery draw. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, comments and kudos are amazing (really!) and if you have a prompt, my tumblr page is 'thewarmerclimate'.


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